


Panic in Year Zero

by Sandoz (Sandoz_Iscariot17)



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: 1960s, Angst, Canon Compliant, Diners, Drama, During Canon, Hotels, M/M, Mutation, Road Trips, Romance, Sexual Content, Small Towns, Superpowers, Suspense, Teenagers, Telepathy, Trains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2014-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:50:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandoz_Iscariot17/pseuds/Sandoz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While searching for new mutants, Charles and Erik arrive in a town plagued by strange events, including animal attacks and mind control. They soon discover that the town is at the mercy of the Omegas, a gang of thrill-seeking mutant hellions. Charles and Erik's developing relationship is pushed to the edge, but before the dust settles Charles will have to face Kid Omega in a psychic duel to the death!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Cat People

**Author's Note:**

> X-Men: First Class and its characters belong to Marvel and Fox.

The man's ankle twisted underneath him, and his face smacked hard against the wet pavement. He pushed himself up, hands scrambling for purchase in the leaf-choked gutter, his breath coming hot and fast.

The monster was chasing him.

While cold drizzle fell on the back of his leather jacket, his face burned with panic. He looked up at the tall pines lining the road and thought about running, disappearing into their black density. But he had enough sense left to know that he'd lose his way; he'd die of exposure in the night, if it didn't get him first.

_Don't wanna die. Fuck! I don't wanna die._

The monster was behind him. He heard the scrape of claws against asphalt. 

He stole a glance over his shoulder, expecting to see yellow eyes behind him. He saw only the neon sign of the road house he’d just fled, glowing red like the mouth of hell.  
Dragging his ankle behind him, the man in the leather jacket hurried into the middle of the road. His best chance was a car--someone had to drive by soon--someone. Then he'd be safe. The trees shivered in the wind. 

A pair of golden headlights cut through the drizzling darkness. The man's breath quickened with hope, and he waved his arms to get the driver's attention. The high beams were near blinding as the car screeched to a stop. 

"Thank god," he muttered, hurrying forward. "Thank you, Jesus--" but a jolt of recognition stopped him. It was a yellow convertible with the top up and two shadowy figures inside. He couldn't see their faces, but the body behind the wheel moved and suddenly there was a flash revealing round spectacles.

"No!” He croaked. “Damn you, you freaks!" He whipped his body around to flee the car, but it was too late. A roar filled his ears, drowning out any scream he could have made, and the monster was upon him.

The man hit the pavement with a sickening crack as he was pinned down. He looked with terror into the yellow eyes of the monster—the enormous, sleek panther. The hot, panting breath of a predator seared his face.

He felt the panther's claws, and then he felt nothing.


	2. Village of the Damned

Charles Xavier was dreaming of a white room with white walls, spilling endless light. 

_//Don’t be afraid, Charles,//_ a woman whispered in his mind. _//You’re coming home.//_

His eyes jumped open as the ray of sunlight hit his face. Wrinkling his nose, Charles pulled away from the window and swayed into the man sitting next to him. "So sorry," he said, straightening himself. Embarrassment made heat rise to his cheeks. He caught a brief glimpse of himself in the window's reflection: rumpled hair, collar in disarray. 

"Quite all right," Erik replied, watching Charles straighten his gray suit jacket through half-hooded eyes. The train jostled, and something in his stomach flipped.

If Charles possessed an ability that Erik sometimes envied, it was that he could sleep anywhere. Erik had stumbled on him crumpled in chairs, over a cafeteria table, and once, after they had recruited Alex in Alaska, on the floor. ("It can be quite stimulating, really," Charles had said, after assuring Erik that he hadn't had a heart attack.) He may have been a professor, but he still kept the late night habits of a student. He could have kept Erik up until five in the morning fueled only by tea and conversation about 19th century literature, if Erik didn't remind him that they had things to do before noon. 

It was no surprise to Erik then that Charles slept so peacefully on the train, despite his bent neck and his legs crossed into an X. ("I always sleep that way. Mother said I did it even in the womb.") Erik could never sleep on a train. The steady and determined pulse of the engine, every squeak and bang of a compartment door or tea trolley, kept him on edge. Only the feel of the metal around him, and the presence of the man sitting next to him, made the experience bearable. Memories of the train in Poland, the last trip he would ever take with his parents, replayed themselves whenever he closed his eyes.

"I could give you a dream," Charles had offered in the first hour of their journey. "A long, pleasant one so the entire trip would pass in your sleep." He'd said it kindly, though he'd known that Erik wouldn't accept. 

Presently Charles leaned forward and massaged his temples. There was always a moment of vulnerability upon waking, when his mental shields were lowered and stray thoughts seeped into his mind—

 _(He doesn’t love me, he doesn’t love me,_ Molly Andrews thought in despair, clutching the small gold cross around her neck as if asking for divine intervention.

 _My feet are killing me. It would serve them right if I dropped this tray right on their lap_ , thought Seth Glover as he pushed his way through the dining car.

A history professor nervously shuffled note cards, his mind an overstuffed bookshelf. In the Pullman car, a man and his mistress furtively made love. 

And then there was Erik. Erik, whose thoughts were always as sharp and glimmering as knives: _One last trip. One last trip and then Shaw…Charles looks ill._ )

“I’m all right,” Charles replied, and immediately Erik fixed him with a cold glare.

“Stay out of my head.”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to pry. This carriage is crowded and my mind is unfortunately a bit…open, when I first wake up.”

Erik arched an eyebrow, the tension evaporating from his face. “You can’t stop your telepathy, can you?” He seemed to consider this for the first time. 

“You mean turn it off, as if I had a switch on the back of my head?” Charles wiggled his fingers near his ear. “No, no. It took years of concentration and focus to block other voices out. Build walls separating my mind from others. It’s almost a reflex now, but…”

Erik was taken by surprise as Charles shared a mental image between them: an enormous Elizabethan manor, its interiors a maze of elegantly furnished rooms and corridors.

“I suppose my mind is like a crowded house. When I’m alone, my mind is quiet, but when I’m surrounded by people I hear their voices all around me.” Charles gave Erik a new vision of himself standing in an empty ballroom, looking impossibly small. In the next instant the ballroom was full, crowds of partygoers laughing and chattering, but none touching Charles or even looking at him. “Think of a door separating every mind on the planet. Only a telepath has the power to open them. But sometimes my concentration slips and I find myself in the wrong room.”

“Is it any wonder then, when people see you as an intruder?”

Charles pulled back, looking wounded as if Erik’s words had drawn blood. But for once, he did not have the spirit for a debate with his companion.  
“Your thoughts are very calming, Erik.”

Erik shot him another dark, warning glance.

Charles folded his hands in his lap. “I don’t mean that I’m reading your mind. I mean…your presence is calming.”

“I doubt that.”

“The minds around us are a chaotic swirl of anxiety, fear, and lust. But your thoughts are always so directed. Focused. You have gravity.” Then he said, not for the first time, “I’ve never met anyone like you, Erik.”

Erik’s answering smile was thin but warm. Charles resisted reading the emotions behind it.

Several minutes of convivial silence passed. Erik sensed the time by the position of the hands on his watch. "We're almost there.” 

"Wonderful." Charles flashed a grin, stretching like a cat. He reached for the folded, abandoned newspaper on an empty seat. The dramatic headline gave him pause: "MAN, 48, MAULED. MOUNTAIN LION SUSPECTED." 

Erik read over his shoulder. "Perhaps the CIA should be recruiting mountain lions, not mutants." 

"How gruesome,” Charles replied without amusement. He tossed the newspaper across the compartment with a flick of his wrist. 

Outside the window, the sunlight began to fade, obscured by rows of dark pine trees. The train was losing speed. Rigidly Erik stood up and reached for his leather suitcase in the overhead compartment. His nerves relaxed at the touch of it, the knowledge of the secret compartment inside that housed the .45, silencer, and ammunition. He felt the presence of the cool metal--the gun Charles knew about, but would never speak of--and was soothed. 

"Well," Charles said, running a quick hand through his hair and flashing a grin that made him look ten years younger, "Another adventure begins, my friend.”

###

"Bang! Bang! I shot you, Commie!"

A pair of dark-haired boys looped around Erik’s and Charles' legs, firing toy pistols. The smaller boy grabbed his chest and fell to the floor with a loud, theatrical death cry.

Erik watched the display with distaste. There was something obscene in children playing war and thinking of killing as an adventure. 

But then, he was not one to raise children. 

The Blue Dreams Motel was a lonely little building amid the pine forests and gleaming lakes in the Adirondacks, boasting television and air conditioning under its blue neon sign. Yet it seemed like it had been a long time since anyone had slept in its thirty rooms, if the darkened windows and empty parking lot were clues.

As they waited in the lobby for service, Charles investigated the wire rack of paperbacks and comic books, plucking up several of the most colorful titles.

"Not your usual heady reading material, I see." Erik commented, tapping his finger on the cover of _Secret Hearts_ No. 74.

"They're for Raven," Charles replied. "Something to show I was thinking of her. When we were children, sneaking comic books inside our house was one of our favorite tricks. Our stepfather hated them. He thought they'd rot our brains and turn us into juvenile delinquents. Now--”

“You’re proving him right?” 

Charles rolled up the comic and playfully batted Erik’s shoulder. “Oh, I’m quite the delinquent, my friend.”

Erik rifled through one of the issues, something called _My Greatest Adventure: Starring the Doom Patrol!_ The contents were pure pulp: a ragtag group of outcasts (“We’re still just freaks to them!” proclaimed Negative Man) led by a genius in a wheelchair, battling an escaped Nazi war criminal—Erik crumpled the flimsy comic in his fist, disgusted.

The small boy hopped off the ground and ran behind a potted plant. He waved his toy pistol in the air, yelling, “Now you’re the Commie! Pow!”

“Am not!” His brother aimed at Charles as if he wanted to hit him right between the eyes. Erik wished the toy pistols were made of metal rather than plastic, so that he might teach the children a lesson.

"Billy! Rex! Stop fooling around in here and play outside!" boomed their bouffanted mother, her penciled eyebrows arcing for the ceiling as she stepped behind the reception desk. "But stay where I can see you!" (The boys huffingly obeyed.)

Charles sauntered up to make their arrangements, giving their names as Xavier and Lehnsherr.

The woman looked up and down his face as he signed the registry. "You're not from around here, are you?"

Charles didn't miss a beat. "I don't think we'd be checking into your fine establishment if we were."

"Farther away than most."

Erik was now at Charles' side. His voice was clear and sharp: "Is that going to be a problem?"

"Just making an observation, that's all." She took the registry and plucked the room keys from the board behind her. Yet her thoughts were as loud as the pop of the boys' toy pistol. _What kind of name is Lehnsherr, anyway?_

He snatched the keys from her hand and said curtly, "We'll show ourselves to our room."

The two men stepped out into the clear October weather. The children, Billy and Rex, doodled on the pavement with pink and yellow chalk. 

"Ah, American hospitality," Erik said, tilting his chin up, "As warm as apple pie."

Charles adjusted the stack of comic books under his arm and sighed in disappointment. The keys jingled in his hand as if they felt the tug of Erik's presence. "They're not all that bad."

Erik made a small "Hmmph," as if he knew that he was right and Charles was wrong and was willing to leave it at that. 

The boys scattered when they saw the men approach, abandoning the chalk to roll into the gutter. Erik stepped over the sketches without a glance, but Charles lowered his eyes: doodled with childish enthusiasm were two stick figures, a yellow car, and what looked like a big jungle cat.

And what was written above the drawings made his eyes go wide in surprise:

HELLO CHARLES SEE YOU SOON

###

The Tick Tock Diner was a shiny silver bullet of a building advertising "GOOD EATS--UP ALL NIGHT" in the window and serving coffee that was very black, very hot, and very bad. Red vinyl squeaked as Charles leaned back in the booth and fingered the laminated menu. 

If there was a positive side-effect to Charles’ mutation, Erik mused, it must be that he was irresistible to waitresses. In weeks of jetlagged cross-country travel, there hadn't been a diner or café waitress in the United States who had failed to succumb to Charles' charms; young or old, weary or bright-eyed, they were captivated by his easy smile and the posh accent that spoke of romantic nights in Oxford. Or perhaps it was the fact that Charles, careless with money, tended to over-tip. 

But Erik could understand their fascination. Charles had a way of focusing on you that made you feel like you were the only soul in the room; when he listened to you, he made even the most mindless chatter seem important. In some ways it was a relief for Erik to leave the small talk to his companion (he was aware of the pointed glances women--and some men--paid in his direction as well) though sometimes Erik wanted to poke Charles under the table with a fork as a reminder that there were more important matters to attend to. 

Their travels were nearly over (Sean, their latest find, had been bubbling with excitement when they last saw him, eager for his first flight on a plane) and Erik was eager to begin the next phase in their plan against Shaw. He'd had enough of American roads, with their terrible beer and greasy food that Charles devoured with aplomb. 

"Can I top that off for you, Sugar?" asked their waitress, coffee pot in hand, her candy-pink apron splotched with ketchup. 

"Thank you, Bette," Charles said, winking as he raised his cup, and Erik wondered if he had picked up her name from her nametag or her mind. 

"You're an abominable flirt, Charles," Erik said with a sardonic tilt to his mouth after Bette departed. "She probably has a husband who sleeps with a shotgun under his pillow, just waiting for a handsome stranger to roll into town and get fresh." 

"It always pays to be polite. Waiting tables is a thankless profession; Raven could tell you horrible stories." 

"We should have brought her along," Erik said, eyes darkening at the sound of her name. "If Cerebro's readings are correct, we're outnumbered here." 

"She wanted to stay," Charles replied, taking a sip of the hot black coffee. He felt rejuvenated, the blood surging in his veins. He resisted the impulse to shake his arms and wiggle his fingers. "She's happy to welcome our new recruits. We thought we were alone for so long, this is an exciting development for us--for her. Meeting mutants her own age." He recalled the thrill in her voice when he'd told her that the first mutant they met, Angel, would soon be joining her. ("No offense, Charles, but this was becoming too much of a boy’s club.")

“Three mutants, right in this little town,” Charles said with excitement, looking out into the street. “Their proximity to each other is quite remarkable. I would have expected a small gathering in a large metropolitan area like New York, or London. But here…”

“Remarkable?” Erik echoed, laying his palms flat on the tabletop. “Or suspicious? We could be walking into a trap, you know. You don’t seem to grasp that.”

Charles shook his head. “You mean Shaw. No, I would have felt his presence, or one of his subordinates. Whoever these three mutants are, they’re not affiliated with Shaw.”

Erik exhaled, unwilling to press the matter forward at this time. “Can you feel them?”

Leaning back against the stiff booth, Charles touched his temple and felt the pulse there. He concentrated. “Yes. They’re together, very near here. Two men and one woman.”

Erik raised his cup of coffee (black just as his chosen chess pieces) in a toast. “To our fellow mutants.”

“Cheers.”

The coffee hot on his tongue, Charles gazed above his companion’s head. They were the only diner patrons, which seemed odd for a Friday evening. He expected to at least see a knot of teenagers around the futuristic, chromium jukebox, but it played the Shirelles to an empty dance floor.

He picked up a stray thought from a cook inside the kitchen: _Business has been dead since they showed up. No one wants to go out anymore…_

The shuffle of shoes on linoleum signaled Bette's return. She slipped them the check, flashing Charles an appreciative smile and tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. Watching Charles return the smile, Erik was once more tempted to stick him with a fork. 

"Is there anything else we can do for you gentlemen?" she asked. 

"We're absolutely perfect, love, thank you so much." Excitement made Charles lay it on thick. 

"Wonderful," Bette said, but the voice slipping out of her pale pink lips did not belong to her--there was now a deep, low undertone, masculine and unfamiliar. A glaze fell over her eyes. 

Erik and Charles both straightened in alarm, stealing a quick, questioning glance at each other before looking back at Bette. 

"Pardon me?" Charles asked, brows pressed together.

"You're the mind-reader, aren't you?" she asked, pleasure in her voice. She looked directly at Charles and ice ran through his veins. "We're waiting for you." 

"Who are you?" Charles demanded, his telepathy striking her mind like an arrow. But the true target had already slipped away, the alien presence disappearing as if it had never been.

Bette blinked as though slipping out of the daydream. "Me?" she asked, taken aback by the charming Englishman's suddenly demanding tone. 

Charles leaned back and sighed. "Nothing, I'm sorry. Thank you." 

She slipped away with an unsure glance over her shoulder. Charles and Erik were now alone, eyes boring into one another's. 

###

"A telepath," Erik rasped as they strode down the gray sidewalk, shoulder-to-shoulder. He thrust his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. "Shaw's woman, Frost?"  
As if hearing her name, the wind blew a cold breath through their hair. The scent of autumn was in the air: dying leaves and burning wood. 

"No, it's not her. She couldn't have hidden herself from me, not when I was searching with Cerebro. This is someone else. Not necessarily a telepath--their power could be possession, perhaps. But another telepath would be extraordinary." Anticipation lit Charles from within as he rubbed warmth into his hands. 

"When I was a child, I thought I was alone. Then I met Raven, and then you. It's amazing, but the three of us, and the other children, are all so different, I never would have guessed there were other telepaths in the world." 

"Are you afraid you're not as unique as you once thought?" Erik asked. 

"It's not that at all, Erik, I--" 

"I know," he replied. "I doubt very much there's another man like you on the planet." 

A smile fell on Charles' lips, and for several minutes they walked in silence down Main Street. It was a quiet night, occasionally interrupted by the sounds of insects, the bark of a dog. Charles passed under a streetlamp; the golden light made his pale skin seem radiant. 

"If our new acquaintance is a telepath," he said, picking up the previous conversation, "That could explain why the three of them are here. How they were able to find each other." Wistfulness crept into his tone. "It's amazing, my friend. No matter how alone we may feel when we realize what we are--" his shoulder knocked Erik's gently; he'd drifted too close, though Erik did not flinch away, "In the end, we find each other." 

"If that's the case, why didn't he talk to us in person, instead of using that waitress as a mouthpiece?" 

"Perhaps he's uncertain of our intentions." 

"He said he was waiting for you." 

Charles had no immediate response. His brow furrowed in thought. 

"I do not have the spirit for childish games of hide-and-seek. We need to find him and his friends." 

They found themselves standing beside a fence plastered with advertisements; the Starlite Drive-In was hosting a double feature of _Panic in Year Zero_ and _World Without End_. He brushed his fingertips over the wind-beaten paper, the printed images of mushroom clouds and exclamation points, cinematic apocalypses. 

"I know," Charles said to Erik's back. "The clock is ticking." 

On the far side of the fence someone had painted the word “OMEGA” in thick red letters. 

"Strange," Charles said idly. "It's Friday night, isn't it? And the streets are so quiet. There aren’t even any joyriding kids around. And look,” he pointed to a pharmacy as they passed it, its windows dark and its door shuttered. “Everything’s closed, and it’s not even nine.”

Erik said nothing at first; Charles was just trying to fill the air between them, as he often did. But something in him realized the silence between their words was unusually deep. The sidewalks were empty. No cars drove by on the narrow streets. The traffic signals shifted from yellow to red, stopping no one. Erik had traveled many dark, lonely corners of the world; he knew small, sleepy towns, but this town wasn't asleep--it was comatose. 

Charles picked up on his thoughts immediately. With a nod of understanding, he brought his fingers to his temple and reached out to the nearest minds--a middle-aged janitor, a teenage girl listening to her Roy Orbison record, an elderly woman knitting a scarf--and yet at the faintest psychic touch an alarm of _STAYINSIDESTAYINSIDEDONTGOOUT_ was sounded, and Charles gasped. 

"He's a telepath, all right," he said with a wince. It felt like his ears were ringing. "He's ordered everyone to stay inside." 

"He has that kind of power?" Erik's hands closed into fists. 

"No, it’s more of a low level psychic suggestion, for every mind in the area--maybe a mile. They're....the people in this town are afraid to go outside. They don’t know why, but they won’t.”

“Not everyone,” Erik said, pushing Charles’ shoulder back to shield him with his taller body. Bright headlights revealed a car as it turned down their street. The blue sedan paused beside the curb, its motor still purring, and the driver—a thin, sallow-skinned man in a gray suit--rolled down the front passenger window to address them. His eyes had a blank, glassy stare, and his voice sounded distorted, like a bad dubbing of a foreign film.

“Hi, fellas. How about we meet in the flesh?”

“Who are you?” Erik demanded. “We’re not playing games.”

He shrugged. “What’s wrong with a little mystery? Hop in, and when you join us, we’ll buy you a drink.”

Charles touched Erik’s mind briefly. _//Whoever the puppet master is, he’s very good at shielding his identity. But I’m not sensing aggression or violence.//_

_Your naiveté is breathtaking, Charles._

_//Please. Remember the mission.//_

_You don’t have to remind me of that,_ Erik thought, viciously jerking the front passenger door open and sliding inside. Charles quietly slipped into the back. Their chauffer shifted into drive and Erik promised him, in the voice of a man who had killed before and was quite good at it, “One false move and I’ll wrap the steering wheel around your neck.”

The sedan roared down the street, leaving the silent, empty town behind.


	3. The Magnetic Monster

II. The Magnetic Monster

One-Eyed Jack's was a frontier-style roadhouse on the edge of town, its neon sign bathing Charles and Erik in red light. Abandoned by their telepathically-shanghaied chauffeur, they stood in the gravel parking lot amid a row of black and red motorcycles and an incongruous yellow convertible. Charles looked at Erik with an amiable shrug, and they passed through the swinging doors. Leather-clad motorcyclists crowded the bar, slapping each other's backs and chugging from foaming mugs. The place stank of cigar smoke and stale beer.

"I feel overdressed," Charles murmured, eyeing the figures in studded jackets and oily denim. Peanut shells cracked under their shoes. 

"Where are they?" Erik asked, his gaze flickering over the crowd. One pockmarked greaser returned his stare and spat emphatically on the floor. Instinctively Erik felt for the metal objects in the room, identifying potential tools and weapons: screws, ice tongs, zippers, switchblades. 

"They're here." Charles touched his temple. The atmosphere was heavy, weighed down with chaotic, drunk, and doped-up thoughts. But the three mutant minds were close, bright as flares in a night sky. And one mind burned especially bright. 

A hand shot up from one of the red booths, waving enthusiastically. A voice called over the din: "Charles! Over here!" Charles and Erik exchanged a look: _Well, all right then._

The three new mutants looked even more out of place in One-Eyed Jack's than Charles and Erik. A trio of teenagers, all under eighteen from the look of their fresh, glowing faces. The girl was sensuously pretty, with her long, wild hair tinted violet under the fluorescent lights. She smiled behind purple cat-eye glasses. There were two boys. One was handsome in the mold of James Dean: dark haired, windbreaker-clad, and with an arrogant lilt to his mouth. The second boy, the one who had called Charles by name, was skinny and barely sixteen, his brown hair fashioned into a quaff almost too large for his face. His eyes were swallowed by his round spectacles, giving him the look of a student who should have been hunched over a chemistry textbook instead of partying in a roadhouse. 

"Hi," he greeted as Charles and Erik slid into the booth. "I'm Quentin. Quentin Quire." He enunciated his name very carefully, as if he’d rehearsed this introduction in front of mirror.

"Charles Xavier.” A friendly handshake was offered.

“The telepath!” Quentin beamed.

"Erik Lehnsherr." His hand didn’t move.

Quentin didn’t miss a beat. "The man who threatened to wrap a steering wheel around my neck." 

Erik smirked. "The same." 

Charles leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "I'm sorry if our introduction was a bit tense. It's wonderful to meet you all in person--" He looked to the other teens for assistance, and when their eyes met, his mind brushed theirs very gently.

"Manuel de la Rocha," said the handsome boy in the windbreaker. _(Impressions of wealth, comfort, superiority. The roar of his yellow convertible—a present from Father—and the wind biting his face. A young man who always got what he wanted.)_

"Sharon," answered the girl, smoothing her hair around her shoulders. “Sharon Smith.” _(Her thoughts were wild, slippery, hard to grasp. The taste of cotton candy dissolving on her tongue. The surge of a Ferris Wheel. Dough-faced strangers hooting and applauding—to them, her mutation was simply an impressive magic trick.)_

And Quentin. Charles recognized the tremendous power lurking inside him and probed carefully. _(A small white house and a mother and father. A pink-frosted cake with eighteen candles. Voices inside his head. His parents’ minds opening up to him like split watermelons. Seeing their messy, pulpy insides. He was not like other people. He was special.)_

And then there was another, darker memory, lurking just below the surface:

_(A man running in the drizzling night. A horrified face blinded by headlights. Screaming as a panther leapt upon him--)_

//Naughty, naughty,// Quentin’s voice said inside his head, as jarring as a record scratch. //What are you, a peeping tom?//

Before Charles could respond, Quentin said aloud, “Did you guys know Mr. Xavier here is a professor?”

“We’ve been waiting for someone to find us.” Manuel’s smooth voice snagged Charles’s attention. “You from the government, man?”

“Not quite,” Erik answered.

Manuel looked Erik up and down, evaluating the older man. “Then where are you from? Not from around here, with that accent. You a Kraut?”

Anger rippled off Erik in waves. The screws nailing the table to the floor began to vibrate; the cash register rattled, pennies and quarters dancing inside.

“Who cares?” Sharon slid closer to Charles with a flirtatious smile: “I think your accent swings.”

Charles noticed the color of her eyes. They were a brilliant gold, reminding him instantly of Raven. 

“Don’t worry about Manuel, he has a suspicious mind,” she continued, smoothing a wrinkle in her skirt. “He thinks we’re a science experiment gone wrong. The Russians put something in our mothers’ drinking water.”

“What else could it be?” Manuel demanded. It seemed to be an old argument between them. “We’re not Martians.”

Sharon’s voice was sharp: “We’re freaks.”

“No, you’re not. We’re mutants,” Charles said with emphasis. “The next stage in human evolution. You’re gifted. The color of your eyes is a beautiful example--”

Not now, Charles, Erik thought loud enough for him to hear.

“Mutants, huh?” Quentin asked, caressing the neck of his beer bottle. “I’ve been calling us Omegas.”

“Catchy,” said Erik with a sardonic quirk of his mouth. He regarded them coolly, waiting to be impressed. “What else can you ‘Omegas’ do?”

Sharon brought her finger to her lips, golden eyes glittering. “I’d show you, but I don’t want to cause a scene.”

“It’s wild, man, wild,” Quentin laughed. He turned to look at a waitress hustling between tables, his eyes boring into the back of her head. He jerked his hand as if reeling in a fish—and the woman abruptly spun around and strode to their table with a beer-laden tray.

“Where are my manners? I said we’d get you fellas a drink.”

Charles winced. When Quentin used his telepathy the air crackled with raw energy that only the other psychic seemed to sense. Quentin was powerful, but untrained. His brain blazed with power.

The waitress distributed the beer among the teenagers. One bottle slipped from her tray and shattered on the floor, splattering Manuel’s boots with beer and glass.

“Hey!” He snapped out of his seat, gesticulating wildly. “Look what you did!”

“I’m sorry--” the waitress began, but her words died in her throat.

Manuel’s eyes flashed with more than anger—they had an uncanny white glow. His handsome face became distorted, cruel. “That’s right, you’re sorry. Tell me how sorry you are.”

The waitress slowly crumpled and slid down on her knees. Her cheeks became wet with tears, and her voice was soft, as if she was murmuring in her sleep: “I’m so sorry sir, please….please forgive me…”  


“Is that the best you can do?” Manuel sneered. “Maybe you should _lick my shoe_ \--”

“Enough!” Charles stood up, slamming his fists against the table and breaking Manuel’s concentration. 

Manuel flinched; the light faded from his eyes and the desperate penitence evaporated from the woman’s face. She stood up on shaky legs and blinked in confusion. Sighing, Quentin waved his hand and shooed her away with a telepathic prod. 

“Sit down.” Quentin glared at Manuel as if he were a puppy who had just pissed on the carpet. 

He obeyed silently, his nostrils flaring. Manuel was the taller, older, and more physically commanding of the two, but Quentin gave the orders.

“Emotion manipulation,” Manuel said to Erik, running an angry hand through his dark brown hair. “That’s what I can do.”

“Manuel’s a popular guy,” Quentin said wryly. “Especially with girls.”

Sharon laughed.

Pulse hammering, Charles fought to control his voice. “That was appalling. Degrading that woman, manipulating the man who drove us here like he was a ventriloquist’s dummy-- we have a responsibility not to abuse our powers.”

“What’s the hang up?” Quentin took a draught of his beer and flicked his tongue over his moist lip. “It’s not like we’re hurting anyone.”

“But you have hurt someone, haven’t you?” Charles’ voice sharpened. “The man the papers say was attacked by a mountain lion.” 

Erik stole a glance at Charles, his body alert and tense with coiled power.

“Oh, that guy. He had it coming.” Quentin dug into his pants pocket. Had he reached for anything made of metal, Erik would have immediately ripped it out of his hand, but to his surprise Quentin held up a small bottle of pills, the kind you could find in any pharmacy in America. “He held out on us. Ever try these?” 

Quentin popped the cap. He shook a pair of purple pills onto his palm and chugged them down with a long swig of beer. 

“Uppers,” Charles said. At Oxford he’d been to parties where amphetamines and barbiturates were passed around like after-dinner mints, and once he’d been nearly mugged by twitchy, hopped-up Teddy Boys--but this was something new.

Quentin named it: “Kick. This motorcycle club takes ‘em to stay up when they want to ride all night. But when someone like us pops ‘em--” Quentin mimed an explosion with his fingers. “Blast off. It’s a crazy kick, man. Straight up into outer space. Expands your consciousness.” 

“You attacked a man over pills?” Erik scoffed.

“He was just some drifter. A dealer. No one important. He’s in the hospital, so it’s not like we killed him or anything.”

Erik gave a cold, level warning: “Life and death are not games for children.”

“We want to help you,” Charles added. “We hope that you’ll come with us, learn to use your powers responsibly--”

Quentin snorted. “’Responsibly?’ You do sound like a professor—like one of those old windbags at school.” His smile twisted into a scowl, his illusion of friendliness dissolving. The air began to thrum with psychic energy. A chill slithered down Charles’ neck.

“I hate school.”

Suddenly Charles was stricken by blinding pain, like a railroad spike being driven into his cerebral cortex. He bit down on a scream as his head slammed against the back of the booth. He forced his eyes open and concentrated on bottling down the piercing agony, locking it away. _The pain’s not real. It’s all in the mind, all in the mind…_

Quentin Quire’s lips pulled back from his grinning teeth. A vein in his temple throbbed and his eyes shone with power. His whole body seemed lit from within as he sent bolts of psychic energy directly into Charles’ brain.

The next sound Charles heard, barely audible over the blood pounding in his ears, was a crash of steel against Quentin’s skull. It was over in seconds, but seemed to unfold in front of Charles’ eyes like a series of still frames: the cash register ripped from across the room, striking Quentin’s head; Sharon and Manuel’s synchronized cries as they felt the psychic echo of his agony; Erik standing over Charles, tall and deadly, his arm outstretched.

By now the air was filled with shouts as the rest of the roadhouse knew a fight had broken out. The pain in Charles’ head dissolved, replaced with a cacophony of spoken and unspoken voices: What the hell/What happened/Is this a raid?

Charles made himself visualize a red brick wall separating the jumbled minds from his own. The voices receded until he could only hear the one voice that mattered to him.

“Say something. Charles.” Erik hovered over him, gripping Charles’ shoulder hard enough to bruise. 

Charles blinked; his vision was blurry, and when he touched his face he felt blood trickling down his nose. Bills and coins from the broken till scattered like confetti around their feet. “I’m all right,” he said, groping for his friend’s hand. “It’s Quentin, he--”

“Hey, Kraut!”

Erik whirled around.

Manuel stood up, his fists on the table. Malicious glee darkened his face. “How about you pick on someone your own size?”

Erik’s hand fell away from Charles. His body went rigid and color drained from his face. Charles recognized the glassy look in his eyes with horror. “Erik, don’t--”

Turning away, his movements stiff like an automaton’s, Erik approached a bullet-headed member of the motorcycle gang. He was a tall man, with skin like boiled ham and thick hair on his knuckles. Stuffing cashews into his maw, he took no notice of Erik until Erik’s fist collided with his jaw. He toppled backwards over a chair, the wood snapping under his weight.

“Erik…” Charles tried to rise, but he couldn’t command his legs to move. His vision swam. He reached for Erik’s mind, but his friend’s thoughts were shrouded in a red mist of senseless aggression. A monster’s rage.

Noise erupted as the motorcyclists jumped from their seats and surrounded Erik. 

“What the hell’s your problem, man?” demanded one biker with a cigar jutting from his sneering mouth. Another biker threw a punch; Erik dodged his fist in a quick corkscrew motion and followed it with another devastating blow. 

“Aw yeah, get him!” Manuel hollered, indistinguishable from any teenager cheering a football game. He pumped his fists in the air. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

The violence spread. Soon it wasn’t just Erik: Charles could feel the spasms of amplified anger in every mind in the road house as they suddenly turned on each other. Hulking men, burly men, men with thick beards and tobacco-stained teeth. Men who had been friends and brothers seconds ago, now throwing fists and kicking with steel-toed boots.

//Everyone, be calm,// Charles projected. //Be calm.//

In his shaken, weakened state, it was like calling out into a void. He forced his legs to stand. He had to reach Erik and pull him out of the fray before he killed someone—if a biker was stupid enough to pull out a knife, a bloodbath would follow.

//My friend, listen to me,// he sent, pushing through the knots of struggling, grunting bodies. //This isn’t you. This rage you’re feeling isn’t yours. You can overcome it. Please.//

Slumped across the booth, Quentin watched Charles. His own head was pounding with fresh pain and his pompadour was sticky with blood. He turned his bruised cheek toward Sharon. “Stop him.”

Without a word, Sharon removed her glasses and set them gently on the table.

//Erik, please answer me,// Charles entreated. He could see his friend’s silhouette through the crowd, Erik’s teeth bared in a frightening snarl. Even possessed by another mutant’s power, Erik was remarkable; his violence was graceful in comparison to the clumsy, drunken fisticuffs around him. He was beautiful and terrible.

Charles reached out his arm, his fingers close enough to brush Erik’s sleeve—

\--And then a low, animal roar tore the air apart, and Charles felt sharp, blinding pain as an enormous, snarling panther pinned him to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! Thanks to everyone who is still reading, and thanks to everyone reading for the first time.


End file.
